The crown of iron descends in shit
cutting clouds and bouncing
twins off high windows
the dust song of a sucking hose
past time's lost daylight winding

one path snaking over the slab
of a kidnapped plateau
curved glass of space
that a foil suit slides over
trees plugged into the cold ground
far below
a crest of painted bread
rising across the sill

clock hand satellites
firing on titled screens
a ghost with cobweb skin
rising from the sofa
the ass of an observatory
toweling off.